Bitsy
Creech balanced on the stepstool, fastened the noose tightly around her neck,
jumped…and landed on her feet.

“What
the hell?” She gazed up at the ceiling fan to which she had tied the rope and
realized it was too long. Getting psyched up to commit suicide takes a lot out
of a person and Bitsy felt both emotionally exhausted and depressed. She
loosened the noose from her neck and plopped upon her couch.

“I
can’t even do this right,” she said to no one in particular. Gazing at the
photograph on the coffee table brought tears to her eyes — a colorful
eight-by-ten image of her ex-boyfriend, Buck, at the Ramseur Onion Festival. He
had won the onion eating contest, earning him the title of Onion King, and
drank enough cheap keg beer to get blitzed out of his mind and vomit all over
the back seat of her car on the hour-long ride home. But what else, really,
could she expect from a thirty-seven-year-old data entry clerk who still lived
in his parents’ basement and played World
of Wizardry, Elves, and Maidens with pasty, zit-riddled teenage dorks
online every Saturday night? What was worse? That he broke up with her? How
sad was that? She clutched a throw pillow with both hands and screamed into it
so the neighbors wouldn’t hear her distress. She could not go on like this. Her
life was a shambles. No hope of love or happiness in the future. After
shortening the rope hanging from the living room ceiling fan, she stood on the
stepstool, fastened the noose around her neck, and jumped again.

The
fan ripped out of the ceiling and bonked her on the head as she crumpled to the
floor. “Son of a bitch, cheap-ass apartment,” she thought before passing out
from a concussion.

Eventually,
her ringing cell phone woke her. Bitsy possessed one friend, Fawn, an
irritating, middle-aged divorcée who only called Bitsy when nobody else was
available or when Fawn wanted a ride to the airport. Bitsy allowed the call to
go to voicemail as she stumbled from the debris of ceiling drywall, wires, and
fan blades on the floor. The side of her head throbbed and blood gushed from a
cut. She hurried to the bathroom and the image staring back at her reminded her
of Carrie after the prom’s pig blood
incident. The sight of her own blood made Bitsy woozy so she carefully dropped
to her knees and huddled in a fetal position on the bathroom floor mat. “I’ll
just lay here for a moment or two.”

* * *

Pounding
on the door wakened Bitsy for a second time. She groggily pulled herself up
from the bathroom floor by clutching the side of the bathtub. The room spun.
Using the wall to balance herself, she teetered to the door and looked through
the peephole. Fawn stood fidgeting, dressed in the “party garb” outfit she
always wore on a manhunt — low-rise skinny jeans and a tight, revealing
spaghetti strapped shirt she continuously had to pull down in an effort to
cover her mushroom top. She accessorized the getup with every bit of jewelry —
mostly costume — she’d accumulated in her forty years on earth.

“Hey
girl,” Fawn said as she pushed past Bitsy. A scented cloud of drug store
perfume popular in the 1980’s accompanied her. “I tried to call but you didn’t
answer.”

Bitsy
closed the door and followed Fawn into the living room. “Good golly miss molly,
what happened here?” Fawn pointed a long, red acrylic nail-tipped finger to the
fan and debris from the ceiling. She turned her gaze to Bitsy. “You’re a
wreck.” She sat on the sofa and grabbed a pack of cigarettes from her purse.

Bitsy
sat beside her only friend, tears welling in her eyes, as she started to
explain, “I’ve been depressed and —”

“Will
you be a sweetheart and fetch me a lighter?” Fawn rummaged in her purse. “I
can’t seem to find mine.”

Bitsy
shuffled to her kitchen and grabbed a candle lighter from a drawer. “Here you
go,” she said, sitting on the couch again.

Fawn
pulled out a joint hidden in the cigarette pack and lit up. She took a long
toke. Holding the smoke in, she asked, “Why do you have blood all over your
face? Did you hit your head?” She blew the smoke across the room, away from
Bitsy, who never smoked pot.

“Well,
as I was saying —”

“You
have any beer?” Fawn took another toke.

“No.
So anyway —”

“What
about a soda?” Fawn walked into the kitchen and peered into Bitsy’s
refrigerator. “Damn girl, you don’t have anything in here.”

“Money’s
been sort of tight since I got laid off from the call center. In fact —”

“That’s
okay. We won’t be here for long anyway.” Fawn returned to her spot on the
couch. “That’s why I called earlier. You need to clean yourself up. There’s a
party at O’Neal’s Pub. Dollar drafts. Time to meet some men!”

“Fawn,
I really —”

“Go,
get ready.” Fawn shoved Bitsy toward the bedroom.

“But
my head really hurts.”

“The
least you can do is drive me there.”

“I’m
not sure I should drive. My head —”

“You
can’t expect me to. I just smoked a joint, silly!”

Bitsy
washed the blood from her face, pulled her hair back, and dressed in a
long-sleeved red sweater and black pencil skirt. As she emerged from her
bedroom, Fawn said, “You look like Olive Oyl,” and laughed herself into a
coughing fit. Bitsy’s mouth fell open and Fawn gave her a hug. “I’m sorry, hon,
you look fine. The pot. You know, it gives me the chuckles.” She followed Bitsy
to the car, giggling the entire way. Bitsy started the car as Fawn tottered in
stilettos to the passenger’s side. “Ugh. It smells like vomit in here.”

Though
Buck was out of Bitsy’s life, his scent still lingered.

* * *

The
blaring music and roar of the crowd inside O’Neals Pub exacerbated Bitsy’s headache.
Per typical Fawn behavior, she insisted Bitsy come in for “a second” but
disappeared as soon as she latched onto a guy. Bitsy struggled through the
crowd and squirmed between two men standing at the bar. Before leaving the
apartment, she’d dug change from between the couch cushions and the bottoms of
a couple purses in her closet and collected just enough for one cheap beer. The
busty redheaded bartender seemed intent on satisfying the male patron’s needs
and repeatedly ignored Bitsy when she signaled for a beer. She’d decided to
give up and drive home when the man to her right yelled, “Sasha, serve this
poor gal a beer!” The bartender looked at Bitsy, and asked, “What you want?”

“A
draft, please.” The money had grown sweaty in Bitsy’s hand and she started to
pile it up on the bar. Bartender Sasha slapped a cardboard coaster in front of
Bitsy and placed a red Solo cup of draft beer on it.

“Put
that on my tab,” the guy said, pointing to Bitsy’s drink.

She
turned to him and smiled. “Thanks.”

“Huh?”
He placed a hand to his ear.

“I
said ‘thanks’!”

“Come
here,” he said and led her to an outside patio. He pulled out a chair at a tiny
table for two and signaled for her to sit. Bitsy stared at him as he took a
seat across from her. Dark hair, dark eyes, maybe of Italian or Greek descent?
Definitely cute. “It’s much better out here, don’t you think?”

“Yes.”
She nodded. “It’s pretty crowded and loud inside.” She took a sip of her beer
and set the cup beside his cup on the small table.

Bitsy
smiled. “Yeah, how’d you know? It’s pretty old fashioned.” She took another sip
of beer. If she got a little buzzed it might be easier to talk to him. She
placed the cup down and smoothed her skirt.

“I’ve
a great aunt named Bitsy.”

“See,
I told you. It’s an old lady’s name.” She took another sip. “Mother and Father
named me after my grandmother but nicknamed me ‘Bitsy’ because I was a preemie
and have always been skinny.”

Joe
dug in his back pocket. “I think it’s cute. Like you.”

Bitsy
blushed. Joe opened a can of smokeless tobacco and placed a wad between his
cheek and gum. His lip protruding, he continued, “So what do you do for a
living, Bitsy?”

“I
was a customer service rep for an online insurance agency until last week.”

“What
happened?”

“Got
laid off.”

“Sucks.”
He grabbed a cup and spat juice into it. Bitsy cringed, but he was still way
cuter than Buck, the basement-dwelling Onion King.

“I’m
an IT consultant. I can keep a lookout and see if any of my clients have job
openings, if you want.” He spat into his cup again.

“That
would be great,” Bitsy felt the first twinge of hope in months. She finished
her cup of beer. Buck waved to the cocktail waitress and held up two fingers,
indicating he wanted a couple more drafts.

The
beers arrived, Bitsy got tipsy, and Joe delighted her with fun stories of when
he’d lived in Europe the year after he graduated from college. All was
well…until a blonde bombshell sauntered up to the table.

“Joe,
OMG, it’s been, like, forever.” She leaned down to give him a hug, exposing
gigantic breasts, one with a tattoo of a red rose on it.

Joe
eyeballed the cleavage inches from his face. “Rose, this is my new friend,
Bitsy.”

Bitsy
opened her mouth to say hello, but Rose turned her back and called to her
friends, “Girls, come over here. I want to introduce you to a dear friend!”

Bitsy
watched as four more girls with long, flowing hair, glowing complexions, and
perfect bodies clad in tight mini dresses strode to the table. Her heart sunk
to her stomach and marinated in a hellish acid of misery while the girls
preened over Joe.

Melancholic
Bitsy grabbed her cup and took a huge gulp. Milliseconds after she’d swallowed,
she realized her horrific error. She’d grabbed Joe’s spit cup by mistake. She
threw the cup down, grabbed her throat, and gagged. Everyone focused attention
on Bitsy right before she projectile-vomited spit-cup juice and beer across the
patio. People scattered, yelled, and laughed. A quick few recorded the scene on
their smartphones and immediately posted the revolting footage to online social
networks. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Bitsy sat up and looked
directly into Joe’s shocked face, surrounded by all the pretty girls and their
grossed-out expressions.

* * *

“Omigod!
Omigod! Kill me now! Kill me now! Crap! Crap! Crap!” Bitsy screamed from behind
the wheel as she zoomed home from the bar. She screeched into a parking spot,
ran to her front door, and slammed it behind her, determined that she’d never
face the world ever, ever again. She glanced at the ceiling fan mess on the
floor with bitter despair. She ran to the bathroom and turned on the
bathtub spigot. After taking all her clothes off, she sat in the bathtub,
determined to end her pain once and for all. She grabbed her leg razor and
tried to pry the blade loose, but it held fast. She scraped it along her wrist,
but nothing happened. She cried hysterically. “Why? Why? Help me end it all!
Pleeeeeease!” She climbed out of the bathtub and ran to the kitchen. Once she’d
grabbed a knife, she started to run back to the bathroom; her dripping body
slipped on the slick tile and she fell, cracking her head on the floor, and
reopening the gash from earlier in the day. A vision of all the disgusted
people watching her hurl on O’Neal’s patio flashed through her mind, and she
stood, determined to finish this gruesome task. Sitting in the warm water, she
took the knife and sliced across her wrist. The sight of blood made her light
headed and she passed out.

Hours
later, Bitsy awoke, freezing. She’d sliced her wrist at the incorrect angle and
while it did bleed a little bit, the wound clotted. Meanwhile, the cheap,
poorly fitting drain stopper failed to do its job and the tub water drained
away. There she lay, cold and naked in a dry bathtub, head throbbing from the
combined effects of multiple concussions and cheap draft beer.

Bitsy
rummaged through the medicine cabinet looking for something to quell the
throbbing in her head. An old bottle of antidepressants grabbed her attention.
Her physician had prescribed the medication months ago when Bitsy presented
symptoms of depression during an annual physical. She’d taken a couple of the
pills, but all they did was make her sleepy so she discontinued taking them.
She opened the bottle and downed its entire contents, chewing them like candy.
They tasted like poison, but she didn’t care. Satisfied this method would work,
she climbed in bed and hunkered down for eternal sleep.

* * *

Two
days later the phone rang. Bitsy rolled over and checked the bedside alarm
clock. The digital reading indicated it was six o’clock in the evening. Without
thinking, she grabbed the phone and croaked, “Hello?”

A
masculine voice asked, “May I please speak to Bitsy Creech?”

“You
are.” She sat up in the bed and tried to remember what happened. “I mean, I am.
I’m Bitsy. You are talking to Bitsy Creech.”

The
voice on the line laughed. “Bitsy, it’s Joe from O’Neals.”

“Huh?”
Someone was playing a joke on her.

“How
are you feeling?”

She
felt that familiar sinking feeling once again. “What do you care?” She started
to hang up, but hesitated.

“I
am so sorry about what happened. When Rose and I dated in college the same
thing happened to her and she broke up with me. She wouldn’t even talk to me
for months after she…well, you know…grabbed the wrong —”

“Shut
up! Shut up! Shut up!” Bitsy fought her gag reflex.

“Just
listen. You hauled ass out of there before I could stop you. Rose really let me
have it. She was so pissed. Said I deserved to die alone because I refused to
learn from my mistakes. Please, please Bitsy, give me a chance to make it up to
you.”

“How’d
you get my number?” She was still skeptical.

“That
piece of work you came to the bar with, what’s her name, Farrah?”

“Fawn.”

“Yeah,
Fawn. I found her and she gave it to me.”

“Really?
She didn’t try to hook up with you?”

“Of
course she did, but she’s not my type.”

“If
you dated Rose, then I’m not your type either.”

“Rose
was a fun college party girl. You’re the serious, long-term type.”

Bitsy
was thankful she was still in bed because that last comment would have made her
knees buckle and she probably would have hit her head again.

“So
how about tomorrow I pick you up at seven o’clock and we go on a real date.”

“Uh.”

“I
gave up tobacco.”

Bitsy
grinned. “Okay.”

* * *

After
a day of shopping for just the right outfit to dazzle Joe, Bitsy cleaned up her
apartment. Wires from the fan still hung exposed from the hole in the ceiling,
but she’d cleaned up the rest of the mess. She sipped a small glass of
chardonnay to take the edge off her nerves and paced around her apartment in
anticipation of her date. Finally, her bad luck streak had ended. A
relationship with a cute guy who may also be able to hook her up with a job
prospect gave her something to live for. She put on her ear buds, blasted music,
and danced around the apartment in joyous hope. Meanwhile…

* * *

“Goodbye,
cruel world,” Gonzo Santiago said before inserting the gun into his mouth. He
pulled the trigger, but the gun jammed. “Damn! Nothing’s easy.” The online
for-profit school he’d run was being investigated by the feds and his
inevitable incarceration was just around the corner. His wife warned him that
investing in a franchise of the University of Harvard University College
sounded shady, but he’d ignored her. By the time he’d realized he was managing
the front for a Czechoslovakian mob money-laundering site, he was screwed. If
the feds didn’t get him, the mobsters would. He unloaded the bullets, blew into
the gun’s crevices, reloaded, and BAM!

* * *

After a
thorough examination of the crime scene, Detective Padgett turned to the
responding officers and his partner, Detective Chase. “Looks like a pretty cut
and dry situation to me.”

“She looks
familiar to me,” Chase said to Padgett.

“Olive Oyl?”
Padgett straightened his necktie.

“Yeah, but I
feel like I’ve seen her somewhere else recently.” Chase shrugged his shoulders.
“Nevermind. Tell me what you think happened.”

Padgett
puffed out his chest and paced to and fro. “It appears the occupant of A5 was
cleaning his firearm and accidentally shot a round, which penetrated the wall
separating units A5 and A6 and continued its path until making contact with the
deceased’s cranial cavity, resulting in her immediate death.” Padgett removed
his glasses, huffed on them, and proceeded to clean the lenses. “I’m confident
the county coroner will back up my theory.”

“Fine work,
partner.” Chase patted his partner on the back. “What do you say to a little
celebration? O’Neals Pub has two for one drafts tonight. Might meet some hot
chicks.”

Padgett
winced. “No thanks. I heard a few days ago some dumb idiot projectile puked all
over the patio. Not my scene, thank you.”

“Oh yeah, I
saw that on U-Boob.” Chase grabbed his smartphone and his fingers went to work.
“Here,” he held the screen so they could both view the video. “It’s hilarious.”

Margi Desmond has written more than 100
articles and short stories. She’s a member of the
Mystery Writers of America, serves as a selector and judge for the annual
Colorado Book Awards, and serves as a judge for the annual Daphne du Maurier
Award for Excellence. Margi’s website is available at http://www.margidesmond.com
or check out her Facebook Author Page.